I Was a Food-Bubble Baby (And I Turned Out OK)

Oh, how times have changed. These days, sending a kid to school with a lunch of almond butter on multigrain bread and a side of organic carrot sticks won’t generally result in an afternoon of relentless teasing from uncomprehending classmates, but this was not the case when I was growing up.

I was born in 1976—long before farmers' markets became hip and chain grocery stores like Whole Foods taught people how to pronounce “quinoa”—to a hippie mother who banned all things processed, artificially colored and/or socially acceptable from my lunchbox. My mother stocked up on brewer’s yeast and freeze-dried yogurt chips at tiny health-food stores that smelled strongly of B vitamins and wheat germ; she believed that chemical preservatives and refined flour led to cancer and a host of other physical ailments.

In many ways, my mother was ahead of her time, but as a child, I didn’t understand—and probably wouldn’t have cared, even if I did. All I knew was that my friends got to eat the sugar-laden, rainbow-colored breakfast cereals advertised between Saturday morning cartoons, and I did not.

Not for the most part, anyway. Sure, there were the occasional furtive indulgences, usually courtesy of one of my grandparents: a six-piece chicken McNuggets Happy Meal or a bright red Mister Misty from Dairy Queen. Once, I even succeeded in nagging my mother to the point where she broke down and bought me a box of Cookie Crisp cereal. (A profound disappointment, as the commercial had led me to believe I’d be eating a bowlful of actual bite-sized cookies.) By and large, however, for most of my childhood I was that solitary freak sullenly crunching away at raw fruits and vegetables while the “normal” kids happily dined on deliciously nitrate-filled bologna and Wonder Bread.

By the time I hit college, I was ripe for a junk-food rebellion. And I’m not talking about a once-in-a-while corn-syrup-laden slushie. I’m talking more along the lines of gummy bears becoming their own food group. Instead of eggs or oatmeal for breakfast, I’d grab a candy bar. Instead of a sandwich or salad for lunch, I’d opt for a brownie and some sort of oversized coffee drink (usually something like a mocha or anything else involving whipped cream). I’m not going to lie: This period of my life was a lot of fun, except for the fact that I was always either surfing a crazy sugar/caffeine high or trudging my way through its subsequent headache-laden crash. Take that, mom!

It wasn’t until I was in my early twenties and I started having serious stomach problems that I realized I needed to reevaluate my diet. Around this time, I happened to find a part-time job as a nanny for a naturopathic physician whose kitchen was perennially stocked with fresh, unrefined, organic foods. My boss always encouraged me to help myself to the fruit, veggies and tofu in her refrigerator, and when I did, I found that my stomach felt much better—my entire body did, in fact. I started teaching myself to cook, too, inspired by the recipes on my boss’s shelves, which I would copy down while my young charge was napping.

The funny thing was, these foods weren’t unlike the fare my mother fed me as a kid, but eating them on my own terms was a completely different experience. I felt empowered instead of oppressed. Besides, it wasn’t like I didn’t still treat myself to a few gummy bears or grande mochas here and there. After swinging from one end of the nutritional spectrum to the other, I’d finally figured out that the ideal place to be was somewhere in the middle.

Since becoming a mom myself, I’ve tried to instill that same sense of balance in my kids. Like my grandmother (the one who used to sneak me chicken McNuggets) used to say, “everything in moderation.” Though I very rarely buy anything claiming to be flavored with “blue raspberry” or filled with “cheez,” no food is forbidden in my house; as I know all too well, deeming anything taboo only makes it that much more irresistible. So if my 13-year-old daughter is having a sleepover and wants to order Domino's, well, it’s not the end of the world. If my 8-year-old son wants to buy a neon-yellow Spongebob Squarepants popsicle from the ice-cream truck, so be it. I can always serve extra kale with dinner.

As extreme as my eating habits have been at times, I still don’t resent growing up in a food bubble. Like I said, my mother was ahead of her time in many ways—and thanks to her, I already had a working knowledge of natural foods by the time mainstream culinary culture caught up. Plus, now that I’m an adult, I can accept the fact that most of the processed snacks I coveted as a child probably would have turned out to be huge disappointments, just like that bowl of Cookie Crisps. Sadly, I’ll never know for sure, as most of those foods were discontinued long ago (probably for the best, really). At least my kids will never have to wonder about how potentially amazing Domino's pizza or Spongebob Squarepants popsicles might have been. Their food bubbles have already been burst.